Male Bonding (Torben&Tristan)

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Torben Blau

The last time Torben had seen Tristan was at the younger man’s house when they had brought Leopold home from Holland. But despite the seldom visits and detached text messages, Torben’s friendship with Tristan blossomed, burgeoning vicariously through Gwen who was very good at talking for him. But there was only so much Gwendoline could do in so far as Torben’s relationships went, so he clambered onto his bike and, once he was sure there were no more services today, made his way to the Vidal Funeral Home.

Something in Torben bubbled, something in the ticklish underbelly of his psyche giggled. He had a plan so delicious that no one could doubt his whimsy again. The thought came to him on Wednesday, when Gwen, who had refused to go into work this week, didn’t want to go to their tango lesson. She hadn’t left the house, much less their bedroom, and Torben worried for her health and wondered if she had even spoken to Tristan this week. There was something in her eyes, some sort of confused anguish that shattered Torben’s heart. It made no sense to him. Torben was the weak one. It was he who needed her, whose emotional instability made show-stealing cameos in their lives. Gwen was the constant, the sentinel and nurturer of their romance. To see her crumble the way a promontory crumbled in a tempest, to watch her break apart in his hands like low-quality potting clay wasn’t natural. And for the past week, while Gwen walked in a teary fog, their laughter-filled house was dangerously quiet, and only Leopold, oblivious to any adult problems (how blissful to be a child!), made any show of joviality. Even Gabriel, whose emotions were too closely tied to Gwen’s, let out few chuckles or smiles. And for once, Torben felt strangulated by the quiet, imprisoned by the morose palpability of his own household.

It was nobody’s fault. Gwendoline’s body was violently rebelling against their every attempt to conceive, and this latest protest was her way of screaming ‘Stop the Clomid!’. But despite every plea her body made, Torben wasn’t sure Gwen was hearing it herself. She was so determined to have this baby, to love her own flesh and blood as much as she loved Leopold, that she couldn’t see the red flags her own anatomy waved around. She was going to drive herself batty if she didn’t stop the Clomid. If she wasn’t better in a month, he’d drag her in to the fertility office, kicking and screaming if he had to. But until then, he needed a break, and he had to let Tristan know that the Fontaine-Blaus had not purposefully shut him from their lives.

Using Gwen’s e-mail address (best not to ask permission these days), he signed the two of them up for an amateur art class. He could picture them now, sipping wine and painting, a man of Tristan’s talent and a man of Torben’s prestige among the artistically challenged and incapable. Surely, they’d have a blast.

He barged into the Funeral Home, almost galloping with excitement and, beaming, made a beeline for the embalming room. Glad to find it unlocked, he thrust it open with a swift and powerful clang. The smells of rigor mortis and embalming fluid fought for the attention of his nose and as he adjusted to the overwhelming use of a sense he typically never thought about, he approached a shocked looking Tristan.

“I hope you’re near finished,” he said to the taller man, his nose burning, itching. “I have a surprise for you. And it starts in twenty minutes.”

[The Exodus]

OOC: So… I switched computers. Enjoy a different version of my post! BIC:

Tristan Vidal

Tristan couldn’t tell whether the pounding in his head was a bass guitar or his own pulse. On nights like tonight, his headphones fused seamlessly with his skull and whatever he was listening became a soundtrack to after-hours work at the funeral home. Tonight, it was nothing but fast drum solos, screaming vocals, and a bass that just wouldn’t quit, which made working as a mortician feel almost as metal as it sounded. Tonight, when Tristan went home, he’d pay for it in Tylenol and light sensitivity, but right now he was in the zone.

His head rocked back and forth in perfect tempo with the music as his hands worked to sew up the decedent’s neck. He’d placed a cardboard roll where the man’s trachea had been pre-autopsy and once the sewing was done, the guy looked good as new.

Well, almost.

Tristan picked up two jars of cosmetics and compared their shades to a photograph of the decedent. Deciding on the right one, he set to work, painting thick, industrial grade make up over the stitches.

Of course, between his focus on the task at hand and his too-loud music, Tristan didn’t hear the door open or Torben walk in.

He saw him, though out of the corner of his eye. And the motion scared Tristan enough to make him jump. The makeup brush fell from Tristan’s hands as he reached to rip out his earbuds. And then he realized… It was just Torben.

Tristan never thought he’d live to see the day where he referred to Torben Blau, standing in his funeral home, as “just Torben”. For many years, Tristan had idolized Torben’s artwork from afar. Now, he was living every fanboy’s dream: being an honorary member of the Blau-Fontaine family. Of course, that had more to do with Gwen – Torben’s live-in girlfriend and Tristan’s best friend – than anything, since Gwen had been the one to “adopt” Tristan last year. But that wasn’t to say Tristan and Torben weren’t close. They were friends – very good friends – in a much quieter, less demonstrative way. Gwen insisted that they talk to one another. A difficult task for star-struck Tristan and asocial Torben, but one they managed, since they shared a macabre sense of humor and aesthetic, as well as intense affection for the same people. But when Gwen wasn’t forcing them to chat, Torben and Tristan were more than content to spend a few hours drawing beside each other in total silence.

Maybe that was what brought Torben here tonight. Sometimes, he came by to do body studies of decedents.

“Sh*t… Torben, I’m sorry!” Tristan said. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I hope you’re near finished,” Torben said. As usual, his voice was unaffected by anything Tristan had said or done. He had a calm aura around him, if you believed in auras. Tristan didn’t, but there was definitely something about Torben that was monochromatic and reassuring. “I have a surprise for you. And it starts in twenty minutes.”

Tristan was suddenly aware that he was wearing rubber gloves and a plastic smock over the suit he’d been wearing since 5 AM. He felt simultaneously over- and underdressed for anywhere Torben might want to go.

“Let me just pop Monsieur Laverne back into the freezer…” Tristan said, mentally calculating what he could do – if anything – in twenty minutes to feel less awkward about going somewhere with Torben. Because even though they were friends, Torben was still – and always would be – the Torben Blau on some level or another. Unfortunately, Tristan would always be just Tristan, by the same token, and it didn’t matter that he felt out of place. What mattered was, when Torben Blau said you had somewhere to be in twenty minutes, you didn’t turn him down. “Could you prop open the third chamber for me?”

Tristan nodded at his five-person freezer and repositioned Monsieur Laverne for better transport. When Torben had the door open, Tristan elevated the table mechanically and pushed the body back into place. He hated moving bodies; the one part of his job he found distasteful, especially since Tristan saw himself as a one-man-embalming-wonder and moving bodies usually required two or more people. He’d had his table specially made to do some of the heavier lifting for him, but really, it was just a quick-fix for a long-term problem. Without Torben here, it would have taken twenty minutes to put Monsieur Laverne back in the freezer. With him, it took maybe two. An extra set of hands in the embalming room was something to think about.

Tristan peeled off his smock and his gloves and moved to the sink to wash his hands. It wasn’t until he and Torben were sitting in the hearse and driving along the main road, that Tristan realized he had no idea where they were going.

“So, clue me in,” Tristan said. “Where am I driving us to?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Torben Blau

Torben watched Tristan finish up his work with rapt fascination (which, knowing Torben, probably came off as ambivalent boredom). It was interesting to see what Tristan did for a living, to get a secret close up of the life of another person. For a moment, Torben was envious of Tristan. The life of a painter was secluded, confined to the four walls of a studio and to the serpentine fissures of the brain. The life of a painter was solitary save for any family members. But it seemed to Torben that morticians had a nice balance of social interaction and lonesome enrichment. This was, Torben supposed, because most of the people morticians dealt with were already dead and therefore didn’t trigger any social anxieties. Torben could remember all of the times he had visited this place for body studies, and each time, his respect for the death industry grew exponentially.

“Could you prop open the third chamber for me?”

Torben beamed at Tristan and rushed to the freezer to open the door for him. It was the first—and only—time he gotten to aid Tristan at work and it was a true pleasure, even if it lasted less than a minute. In fact, it was the most fun he had all week if he didn’t count watching ‘The Killer Shrews’ with Leopold and Gabriel. He was amazed at the skill Tristan had at lifting bodies, and then realized with amusement, what that would have sounded like out loud.

Well, everyone has to have a talent.

When they were in the car, however, the active interest in Tristan’s work dwindled and Torben fixed his eyes on the road ahead, watching the patchwork streets of Paris disappear behind the hearse until Tristan spoke again. “So, clue me in. Where am I driving us to?”

“To our destination,” Torben said, almost positive it had been some puppet master Gabriel who said it, based on the playful tone of voice. “But first you’re going to take a left.”

The silence filled the car again the way water filled a trough: slowly, excessively, and comfortably. But this time, as they waded, waist deep in it, it was Torben to speak first. “Leopold wanted me to give you this.” He pulled from his pocket a rock that had been painted in green, blue, and red, with a bright yellow face. “He wouldn’t let me leave without it.” He set it in the cup holder, wondering what it was his son was doing now. He had made a new game that he called “Get Daddy Out of Bed”, which Torben and Gabriel took turns distracting him from. He hoped Leopold was still glued to his French tapes and leaving Gwen alone. The toddler had a hard time understanding Gwen’s fragile state, and Torben was worried he would have to explain it to him one day. Not today, anyway. He wondered, even still, if he would have to explain it to Tristan.

Tristan, who needed to take a right. “Turn right here.”

He thought again about the man in the freezer. How had he died, he wondered? Did he have a family? A wife? If so, how would he have dealt with Torben’s predicament? He wondered how the Gwen who had been sobbing for the past week could be the same Gwen who made masks out of wax paper and danced in parking lots could be the same woman. A fairy-like woman with a heart bigger than Saturn, with a glint of mischief in her eyes and a mind so labyrinthine that it could hold other worlds as well as memorize their medical records. It had only been a week away from that woman and Torben felt like she was losing her.

He looked to Tristan and hoped he would never have to feel the same way.

F*cking Clomid…

“How’s Solange? I noticed she wasn’t at the funeral home…?”

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Torben didn’t tell Tristan where they were going. Instead, with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, he said “To our destination!” and gave Tristan some directions. It was like having a human Siri riding shotgun.

The pair of them fell silent after a few moments. It wasn’t an awkward silence, as most people assumed. Instead, it was comforting to have somebody who was as bad at small talk as Tristan was for a best friend. It meant Tristan didn’t have to bullsh*t about the weather or sports or anything he didn’t care about.

But, inevitably, one of them broke the silence. This time, it was Torben.

“Leopold wanted me to give you this,” he said, pulling something from his pocket. When Tristan was at a stoplight, he looked over to see Torben place a brightly colored rock in Tristan’s cupholder. It was green, blue and red with a yellow happy face on it. Tristan smiled. “He wouldn’t let me leave without it.”

“Tell him thanks,” Tristan said. “I’ll probably keep it in my car… Could use a little extra luck on the road.”

In response, Torben said, “Turn right here.” which Tristan did.

Again, silence fell. Tristan caught himself glancing down at the rock in his cup holder. Leopold genuinely believed rocks were lucky. He’d given one to a grieving widow last time he was at the funeral home. Tristan had seen that same widow look peaceful for the first time in a week and a half that same day. Maybe there was a correlation. At least, a correlation between Leopold and happiness, if not between rocks and happiness. Tristan looked back out at the road and braked for pedestrians.

“How’s Solange? I noticed she wasn’t at the funeral home…?” Torben asked.

“Of course she wasn’t. Closing time was an hour ago,” Tristan said, accelerating now that the pedestrians were out of his way. “She’s great, though. Or was about an hour ago, anyways.”

Torben had been asking after Solange since time immemorial. Or, well, it felt that way. Sometimes, Tristan wondered why Torben didn’t just talk to Solange for himself. She loved Gwen and Leopold; she’d love Torben, too.

“How’s Gwen?” Tristan asked, since they were on the subject of girlfriends. “Gabriel answered her cell phone last time I called, so I didn’t get to talk to her.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Torben Blau

“Of course she wasn’t. Closing time was an hour ago,” was Tristan’s quick reply and Torben laughed. Maybe his entrance was poorly timed, but hopefully, Tristan would not regret it. Torben knew he wouldn’t when they returned home with monstrosities of artwork to hang on their walls. “She’s great, though. Or was about an hour ago, anyways.”

“That’s good. That’s always good to hear,”[/b] Torben said, trying to conceal the bitter envy in his voice. His own girlfriend could not be termed as ‘great’ at the moment (though over all, she exceeded the word in all areas). In the ten years they had been together, Gwen had always been ‘great’ even on her lowest day, even in the nadir of a bad time, she was somehow pulled together and smiling. But now, something about her was hollow, empty. It was like being married to a ghost, like being a widower while his wife was still living. And every second he tended to her was another blow to his heart. He could only imagine how she felt. But every time he suggested they stop the fertility treatment or they went in to the doctor’s office, she refused, claiming that this was the only way to get pregnant. And Torben didn’t have the heart to tell her that she wasn’t going to get pregnant by taking Clomid alone.

“How’s Gwen?” Tristan asked, though Torben was almost positive he had asked him that already. “Gabriel answered her cell phone last time I called, so I didn’t get to talk to her.”

Torben nodded. He remembered that. “Yeah, Gwen’s not feeling too well. She’s a little sick. But you know Gwen. She wants “natural remedies” and no professionals so she’s just been resting all week, drinking this tea and that. She’ll be fine.” We’ll be fine.

He wanted a very quick change of subject. “Take a left up here and in about five blocks, we’ll be there.”

This was exactly the kind of outing he needed, the kind of escape he desired. And surely it would be enough of a distraction for Tristan that the topic of Gwen wouldn’t come up again. Because Torben was certain she would still be on his mind tonight.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

It was unusual for Gwen to be out of touch for this long. Honestly, Tristan was worried. Usually, Gwen was checking up on him. Lately, it felt like the other way around. Except Gwen, unlike Tristan, had a barricade of a brother who refused to put Gwen on the phone. Maybe Torben had a better explanation.

“Gwen’s not feeling too well. She’s a little sick. But you know Gwen. She wants “natural remedies” and no professionals so she’s just been resting all week, drinking this tea and that. She’ll be fine.”

Tristan smiled and shook his head. He was a big fan of modern medicine. If you could take a pill for it, there was no reason to sit around and suffer. But Gwen was part wood nymph or something; Tristan could easily imagine her refusing a doctor and swearing by Reiki healing or something of the sort. If he didn’t hear from her – directly from her – by the week’s end, Tristan would bring her a box of chamomile tea and whatever else they sold at “natural healing” shops that seemed at least a little medically viable. If Torben hadn’t gotten her to the doctor’s office, Tristan wouldn’t convince her to, either.

“Take a left up here and in about five blocks, we’ll be there,” Torben said.

Tristan did as instructed and when they pulled up to the building, he let out a small laugh. The place Torben had directed him to was an art studio – a community education center of sorts, where beginner artists could try their hands at replicating famous paintings. Tristan didn’t know if he should be insulted or not.

“Torben,” he said, while parallel parking the hearse. “I don’t know if you know this, but neither of us needs art lessons.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Torben Blau

The building pulled into frame outside of Torben’s window and Torben beamed with pride at the sight of it. But when he looked over at Tristan, his smile fell. Tristan didn’t look nearly as pleased as Torben felt.

“Torben,” Tristan said, his voice stretching, oblong and level as he parked the hearse. “I don’t know if you know this, but neither of us needs art lessons.”

Torben chuckled, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Exactly.” He opened the door and clamored out, the pebbles on the street crunching beneath his shoes, filling in the sentence where Torben failed to. “Come on, Tristan. You’re going to have a blast, I promise.”

He crossed to the door and swung it open with an uncharacteristic gaiety and waltzed in, approaching the check-in where a dark haired woman said, drumming paint-stained hands on the desk.

“Name?” she with a toothy grin and Torben worried not even the hat on her head could contain the bubbliness put champagne to shame. He talked tentatively, lest she popped.

“Fontaine,” he lied with smooth blitheness. With Gwen in bed all day, her e-mail account was free for his personal use. It would have been foolish to use his own, attending an amateur art class as Torben Blau, using an e-mail address as lamentably uninspired as [e-mail]. He would have been discovered in an instance, when his very intent was to disappear and let go for a sweet, precious moment.

“G. Fontaine…?”

“Yes. Gerald. Gerald Fontaine. And this,” he grasped Tristan’s arm and pulled him front and center, forcing through Tristan’s reluctance. “This is my plus one.”

The woman handed Tristan a clipboard for him to scribble his name into the marginalia—whatever name it was he picked—and put down how much art experience he had beneath Torben’s written “none”.

“Can’t tell you how excited I am to take this class. Art is always something I’ve wanted to try, but I’ve always been too scared, you know?”

Torben almost took a second to realize how appalled he was that all of these lies were just rolling off his tongue. He valued honesty, and with every lie he told, he could feel two months of raising Leopold to be blatantly honest unravel at the seams.

When Tristan was done filling out the form, the too-happy-for-desk-work woman lead them to a room filled with easels and faces of mixed ages and eagerness to be there. “Just… go with it,” he mumbled to Tristan before paying the giddy desk lady for tonight’s lesson. “Trust me.”

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Torben chuckled; something Torben did so seldom that Tristan didn’t know if he should be excited or concerned. The last time he’d heard Torben laugh, it had been at Leopold’s mangled French. Tristan frowned. He sat in the hearse a moment longer and for a second, he considered driving off, just to be a pr*ck. See how Torben liked being laughed at when Tristan eventually circled back to pick him up.

“Come on, Tristan,” Torben called to him, killing the malicious thought instantly. “You’re going to have a blast, I promise.”

Tristan got out of the hearse and locked the doors. Then he shuffled after Torben. Tristan dug his hands into his pockets and stared at the man practically dancing in front of him. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that Gwen and Torben had switched brains or something. Because Gwen was the one to swing open doors cheerfully and spring surprise field trips on unsuspecting funeral directors.

This was just too weird.

Tristan’s nose was assaulted by the familiar smell of acrylic paints. It put him at ease. He looked over at Torben and the woman who seemed to be in charge.

“Name?” the woman asked. And without missing a beat, Torben said, “Fontaine.”

As if to confirm the “brain-switch” theory, the woman asked, “G. Fontaine?” and Torben said, “Yes.”

He introduced himself as some guy named “Gerald” and then grabbed Tristan’s arm and thrust him forward. This was definitely some next level science fiction sh*t. Because “Gerald Fontaine” looked like Torben and acted like Gwen. What was next? Was Torben going to claim to be sent from the future or something?

“This is my plus one,” Torben said proudly. Tristan waved at the woman and mumbled, “Hi.” Once upon a time, he would have been thrilled to be Torben Blau’s plus one at an art studio. But right now, he was Gerald Fontaine’s plus one and this was starting to get weirder and weirder by the minute.

The woman behind the counter handed Tristan a clipboard, which he took. He read what Torben had written. He’d signed himself in as “Gerald Fontaine” and next to a box asking how much artistic experience he had, he’d checked “none”. Tristan looked over at Torben. It was blasphemy. A total lie. But it made Tristan think of all those Trickster God stories where Loki or Zeus or whatever pretended to be a peasant, just to screw with mortals. Torben was Tristan’s artistic god. And it seemed that he had a couple of tricks up his sleeve. Tristan also placed an “X” beside “none”. And then he signed the name “Sebastian de Grace” since apparently, stealing your girlfriend’s initials and last name was the thing to do tonight. He would follow Torben’s lead for now. And feel like a total idiot the whole time.

He wasn’t telling anyone about this. Ever.

“Can’t tell you how excited I am to take this class. Art is always something I’ve wanted to try, but I’ve always been too scared, you know?” Torben said.

This time, Tristan couldn’t hold in a laugh. He covered his mouth when the clipboard lady shot him a nasty look.

“This is a safe zone for creativity,” she said, looking at Torben kindly. She sounded like Tristan did when talking to the kids he volunteered with. “There’s no need to be scared, Monsieur Fontaine.”

“Just… go with it,” Torben mumbled, sounding infinitely more like the Torben Blau Tristan knew and idolized. Torben paid the clipboard lady. “Trust me.”


“To the ends of the earth,” Tristan muttered back sarcastically, following Torben like a moody teenager into the other room. There, he saw a gaggle of middle aged women crowded around blank canvases, a father and daughter duo who were both playing with their smartphones, and an elderly man who looked almost ready for the embalming table. The acrylic paint smell was even stronger in here than it had been at the front of the building. The clipboard lady moved to the front of the room.

“Good evening, class,” she said. Tristan had no doubts she’d been inhaling paint fumes for a little too long. “Now that our last two stragglers have arrived, we can begin tonight’s lesson. As many of you know, what we do here is teach novice painters how to paint great works of art. Monet, Dali, Warhol… And tonight, our project is Paris’ own Torben Blau’s great work: ‘Death Wave’.”

“You’re joking,” Tristan muttered to Torben. Unfortunately, he hadn’t muttered it as quietly as he’d hoped. Now all twelve pairs of eyes in the room were on him. Tristan considered melting into the floor. Clipboard lady looked at the class roster and said, “Monsieur de Grace, do you have something you’d like to share with the class?”

It took Tristan over thirty seconds to realize he was the one the teacher was addressing.

“Me? I… Um… Not really,” he said. “I just… Um… I love Torben Blau. He’s… He’s a cool dude. Please, keep talking.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Torben Blau

“To the ends of the earth,” Tristan vowed and Torben was tempted to test it, see where exactly Tristan’s trust would break. Not maliciously, but out of pure curiosity. But then, again, if curiosity could kill an entire feline, it would probably do worse things to a friendship, and that wasn’t something Torben was willing to fall privy to.

They settled themselves on the two remaining stools, across from a distracted father and daughter, who found their phones more fascinating than the class. Torben’s eyes narrowed and if he were a snake, he would have hissed. What was so fascinating on the ‘Facebooks’ and the ‘tweets’ that their attention was drawn from art? And how could a father be more connected with his phone than he was with his own child? He had been hugging Leopold for a few extra seconds these days, making up for Gwen’s lack of cuddles, and he made a mental note to give him an extra kiss as if Leopold could be as affected as he was by the dysfunctional duo before him.

The art instructor pulled his attention back to the front of the class with her shrill voice. Torben was prepared to blame the frequency of her voice and the negative effects of his age on any disobeyed instructions. “Good evening, class,” she said, making Torben more and more thankful for Gwen’s husky laugh. “Now that our last two stragglers have arrived, we can begin tonight’s lesson. As many of you know, what we do here is teach novice painters how to paint great works of art. Monet—“ Torben thought of those lilies on the water and how easy it would be to replicate. ”Dali—“ Torben smiled at the mention of his childhood hero. He had a dog named after Dali when he was growing up. It got hit by a car in a way that it’s head on the pavement looked melted just like one of Dali’s clocks. ” Warhol--” Torben thought of the original Warhol he had hanging in his living room and the unfortunate events that lead up to him acquiring it. Still, he marveled at Warhol’s genius. ”And tonight, our project is Paris’ own Torben Blau’s great work: ‘Death Wave’.”

Something like a shock bolted through Torben and his heart stopped momentarily. This is it. I’m dead. Him? Mentioned in the same thought as his artistic heroes? Him? Under disguise as some made up art amateur being asked to repeat a mural in two hours that took him over a year to plan? Surely, he’d be discovered by his replica if his reactions to other pupil’s work didn’t unmask him. Once Torben’s heart remembered to beat, it made up for lost time and palpitated wildly.

“You’re joking,” Tristan said, pulling the words out of Torben’s mouth. Torben stifled a laugh, covering his mouth to further trap it in.

But the teacher who had breathed in one too many bottles of paint marched over to them, casting a shadow over Tristan. “Monsieur de Grace, do you have something you’d like to share with the class?”

This did nothing to calm Torben’s laugh and he doubled over on his stool, his shoulders shaking as he silently chuckled. “Yes, Sebastian, why don’t you share?”

“Me? I… Um… Not really. I just… Um… I love Torben Blau. He’s… He’s a cool dude. Please, keep talking.”

She looked at Torben now, one thin ebony eyebrow raised. “What’s so funny, Monsieur Fontaine?”

Without hesitation, Torben said up and leaned into his hand. “Nothing, really. I personally, am not a fan of Torben Blau’s work. It’s a bit crude in my opinion. But what do I know? I’m willing to learn. Proceed.”

The woman returned to the front of the room and another woman, short with red glasses passed a piece of paper to each student. Torben took his and looked down, a perfect print of ‘Death Wave’ looking back up at him. Below was a block of text. “Torben Blau was born in Germany in 1971. His work can be seen through Europe, especially Vienna and Paris. He specializes in darker pieces and has been considered ‘The Master of Macabre’. He has a large cult following throughout the world. Though he is a German-born artist, he now lives in Paris with his wife. ‘Death Wave’ is his break out piece, but he holds many expositions and galleries throughout the city.”

Torben snickered again and the crumpled up his paper. “I’m not f*cking German…” he mumbled just low enough for Tristan to hear. “But the title is nice…”

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Torben started to snicker. And then he lost it altogether and laughed uproariously. Tristan didn’t appreciate the extra attention they received as a result. Withering glances did nothing to quiet Torben and just when Tristan swung his leg to kick Torben’s stool and shut him up, the teacher noticed “Monsieur Fontaine” and asked just what was so funny.

“Nothing, really.” Torben said from behind his hand. “I personally, am not a fan of Torben Blau’s work. It’s a bit crude in my opinion. But what do I know? I’m willing to learn. Proceed.”

Tristan rolled his eyes. “Smooth… Gerald. Real smooth.”

It was a pity Torben actually seemed to think that about his own work. Own worst critic and all that. Tristan thought Torben’s work was inventive and it opened doors for other artists – real artists, anyways, and not taggers – to be appreciated by the hoity-toity art world. Torben had to at least know that he’d done some good for a whole generation of painters. He shook his head. Probably not. Torben wasn’t exactly Mister Self-Aware.

The teacher’s aide passed out a stack of papers to the students. When Tristan received his, he stared at it. It was the worst mini-bio Tristan had seen, rife with misinformation. All of it about Torben. Torben, who laughed and crumpled his copy up.

“I’m not f*cking German…” he mumbled just low enough for Tristan to hear. “But the title is nice…”

“You’re also not married,” Tristan pointed out. “What was it you told Olive Degarmo at Christmas…? That you and Gwen are just “shacking up”?”

“Another problem, Monsieur De Grace?”

Tristan looked over to see the teacher staring at him. Apparently, he’d actually done a set of air quotes when he talked. And, apparently, the instructor had been talking at the same time. Tristan had a sudden, brief flashback to his teenage years and all the classes he’d interrupted by mouthing off. Now was usually the point where he said, “No, madame” and hoped no one sent him out in the hall to wait for his uncle. But Tristan was a grown man and there was only one other person who might be able to beat him in artist trivia; and that person was sitting next to him.

“Actually, yeah,” he said. “This biography’s wrong. Torben Blau isn’t German. Or married. He’s Viennese and he lives with his girlfriend.”

“They wed last summer,” the instructor said without a trace of irony. “It’s a little known fact.”

“I'll say,” Tristan muttered. Then, quietly to Torben, “I tried…”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Torben Blau

The inaccuracies casually slipped into Torben’s biography were either lamentable or laughable. He wondered how many other people assumed he was German based on his name alone and just how much this incorrect factoid was now ingrained in his public being. Torben thanked his stars that this added to his anonymity, but he quietly wept for a humanity too lazy to look at his website or Wikipedia to enlighten themselves with the truth. German or not, at least his artwork was being appreciated. And to be fair, this was the only wrong fact folded into the paper.

“You also aren’t married. What was it you said to Olive Degarmo at Christmas…? That you and Gwen were just “shacking up”?” Tristan reminded him and Torben frowned. To be honest, he often forgot he and Gwen weren’t married until either he or Gwen pointed it out. And this week, he felt more like a husband than he ever had before, tending to Gwen in her darkest hours, sitting by her side when she slept, making sure she was never alone, raising their child when she didn’t feel up to it. But fortunately, Torben didn’t have to dwell too long on these thoughts, for the art instructor came their way, casting a shadow over their water cup and crumpled up biographies.

”Another problem, Monsieur de Grace?”

Torben shook his head violently, hoping Tristan would follow in suit.

He didn’t. “Actually, yeah,” he said the way an over-zealous valedictorian would as they corrected typos in a textbook. Torben put his head in his hands. “This biography’s wrong.”

“Leave it alone, ‘Sebastian’…” he moaned, but Tristan continued.

“Torben Blau isn’t German. Or married. He’s Viennese and he lives with his girlfriend.”

But the teacher was having none of it. “They wed last summer,” the instructor said. ”It’s a little known fact.” And Torben wondered if that was true, why he wasn’t invited to this wedding. He also found it odd that this instructor seemed to be such an expert on him, but didn’t realize it was he and not Gerald Fontaine sitting before her on the stool.

“I tried,” Tristan whispered and Torben offered a gentle smile, patting Tristan on the shoulder awkwardly.

“I know. It’s okay. It’s actually kind of funny.”

The instructor returned to the front of the class and picked up a brush. “First, separate your canvas into quadrants. Use your lightest yellow to do so. Try to keep the lines straight.”

Torben threw his hands up in feigned frustration, his paint-covered brush rolling away from him. “I can’t draw a straight line! Told you I was new at this!”

“We don’t strive for perfection, we only ask that you try. In the words of Torben Blau, ‘perfection is overrated’.”

Torben scrunched up his face. He hadn’t said that. Those had been Gwen’s words, something she said over bagels and tea when he got a bad review. How would this woman know that? His gut burned with bile, but he picked up his brush once more and drew quadrants in straight, properly fractioned squares. Before the teacher could start the next step, Torben was already washing off his brush and beginning to mix the needed colours. “How’s this for trying?” he grumbled as he added blue to his grey.

He turned to Tristan. “How would she even know that? ‘Perfection is overrated’… Gwen makes Leo say that every morning before he brushes his teeth.” At least, she did before she got sick… Torben didn’t even know if Leopold knew what the word ‘overrated’ meant. The kid just learned how to count to twenty-five in French, and was still obsessed with telling people that the cat was under the chair. But that was not the issue. The issue at hand was that this remedial art teacher thought Torben was German but knew what his life partner said to him when he got a bad review.

He looked at her applying the next brush strokes to the canvas, picking up the imperfections with his eyes and seeing her proud face as she looked at her handiwork. She was wrong. Absolutely wrong. Surely his work was harder to do for amateur art students than this. At least, that was what he hoped. He wondered if his work seemed harder because he painted the original on a wall, combating against the elements, time, and whether or not the Parisian skies wanted to open up and let down a downpour on that day’s work.

He glanced at Tristan’s piece and smiled. It was better than the instructor’s and almost put his own to shame. Maybe the younger man listened to him more than he thought. Maybe all his talk about how much Torben’s work meant to him was more than just words that might have gotten him famous connections. Maybe Tristan truly valued his work as much as his friendship. He tried not to cry and instead of letting a tear fall, he purposely messed up his outline. Tristan was going to have the best painting in this class and Torben was going to make sure of it.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

The instructor began the class by making them divide their canvases into quadrants. Tristan did as instructed, carefully drawing the straightest lines he could without a ruler. His hands moved steadily, used to making clean, straight incisions or else used to suturing in near perfect rows. He looked over at Torben, curious to see whether the other man thought this was as mind-numbingly dull a first step as he did.

Torben threw his hands into the air and his paintbrush rolled away. Some of the middle-aged ladies jumped at the outburst.

“I can’t draw a straight line! Told you I was new at this!” Torben bellowed.

Tristan stared at him skeptically as the teacher wandered over. Again. For the third time.

“We don’t strive for perfection, we only ask that you try. In the words of Torben Blau, ‘perfection is overrated’.”

The words sounded familiar. Tristan wondered what interview Torben had said them in or if it was something he’d said in passing, like an old adage or whatever. Laurence was one for adages, not Torben. Torben looked more vexed than Tristan felt, scrunching up his face and aggressively mixing paint.

“How’s this for trying?” Torben asked.

“It’s nice to see such enthusiasm,” the teacher said and then she tottered off back to the front of the room. Tristan put down his brush and folded his hands in front of himself, watching Torben.

“How would she even know that? ‘Perfection is overrated’… Gwen makes Leo say that every morning before he brushes his teeth.”

“That’s where I heard it: Gwen…” Tristan said. Then shrugging his shoulders, he added, “Maybe you quoted Gwen in an interview or something. Don’t worry about it.”

He doubted the teacher had secret cameras in the Blau-Fontaine house. No one was nuts enough to do that. And even if she was, then the teacher would have known better than to mistake Torben for a married, German man.

The lesson resumed and Tristan found himself following each step carefully. Before he’d befriended Torben – before he had many friends at all, actually – Tristan spent a lot of his time off in front of the “Death Wave” mural. It had been during a grey time in Tristan’s own life and to his dull anguish, he couldn’t remember a lot of it. Just a dissatisfied feeling with his career in its infancy, a relationship that was slowly cracking under pressure, and artistic endeavors that went absolutely nowhere. That all seemed vague; from a different and parallel universe almost. But he remembered that mural; he remembered sitting there with the bag ladies at dusk and staring at the mad panic and grief laid out on the wall. Before Torben had been Tristan’s friend, “Death Wave” had been the one he confided in and sat with in comfortable, familiar silences with.

He owed it to Torben and to that mural to render a quality imitation. It would never be as good as the original – nothing would be. But it would pay homage with respectful, deft brushstrokes.

But when there was a lull in instructions, when Tristan had done all he could do until they were given their new colors, his intense and calm focus dissipated. He was suddenly aware of Torben’s presence beside him as something other than his best friend. He was sitting next to a real artist, the creator of the original piece they were all aping. He peered at Torben from the corner of his eyes. He wanted to apologize; he wanted everyone in the room to apologize. And then he caught sight of Torben’s ruined canvas. Shame gave way to horror. How was Torben okay with defacing a canvas? This was the same guy who treated paints like they had animistic spirits living in them and who believed time devoted to painting was more sacred than prayer.

“What are you doing?” Tristan whispered. “Torben, your canvas…!”

“Eyes on your own work, Monsieur de Grace,” the teacher chided. “The only one you should be copying is Torben Blau.”

Laughter bubbled out of Tristan before he could stop himself. Not quiet, contained laughter; loud chuckles that even pressing both hands to his mouth couldn’t contain.

“What seems to be so funny?”

But Tristan couldn’t find the words he wanted. Even if he could, it didn’t matter. He was a total goner, laughing like a madman and unable to stop. He could feel disapproving stares from around the room. When he looked up, he noticed that the father of the teenage girl was eyeing him like he might start some sort of anarchical revolution in the art room. Tristan took a deep breath and shook his head.

“Sorry,” he said, meeting the teacher’s gaze. “I just… Do you really think Torben Blau’s work can be copied? Faithfully, I mean? Like, you can’t even make the same exact color twice, even if you are… I don’t know… actually Torben Blau, for instance.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Torben Blau

Torben casually placed paint on his brush and made erratic strokes across the hungry canvas carelessly. He smiled to himself knowing how insulted the teacher would be. But as he painted, the paint blending into a monochromatic mess of greys and blues, he thought of Gwen, probably sleeping in bed or crying into Gabriel’s arms as Leopold busied himself with his French tapes and Dr. Seuss books. Two weeks of frustration, fear, and fever boiled beneath his skin. The teacher talked, droning on about the history of the mural they were supposed to be copying, the art school she attended, and her son. But the muffled voice faded into the same ethereal world dust in the sunlight and television static faded to until Torben could hear nothing but his brush on canvas like deafening waves on dry, hot sand and old conversations he had with Gwen before she got sick. What started as a prank painting turned into a therapeutic experience that sent the past month’s ordeal shooting through his fingers, personifying the nonsensical mess of his feelings and thoughts onto the stretched and treated canvas.

From some deep oblivion, some vast wormhole that had opened in the air beside him, Tristan called to him with a frantic whisper. “What are you doing? Torben, your canvas!”

Lucid once more, Torben turned to Tristan and smiled, though appalled by the awful murk of runny paint he laid before him.

“Eyes on your own work, Monsieur de Grace. The only one you should be copying is Torben Blau.”

The teacher’s shrill voice hit Torben like ice water. It brought him back to reality, gasping for air. Tristan laughed and so did Torben. No one in the class knew that they were all copying Torben Blau. Everyone, that was, except Torben Blau himself. In tandem, Torben and Tristan were performing the biggest mindf*ck of the painting world on unsuspecting amateurs. If Torben ever wrote a memoir, this story would be in it.

“What seems to be so funny?”

Torben laughed harder, practically giddy. Only Gwen ever made him laugh this much and Leopold, too, now that he didn’t run from Torben in fear. But Tristan seemed to be having some sort of comical conniption, cackling from behind his hands until he turned purple.

“Sorry. I just… Do you really think Torben Blau’s work can be copied? Faithfully, I mean?”

Torben stopped laughing. He didn’t even think that highly of his own work. A teacher once said that elephants drew more artistically developed pictures than he did. Another told him that he needed to transfer universities and study history. Critics hounded his work daily, ripping it to metaphorical shreds. Only Gwen seemed to appreciate his work these days.

But Tristan! Sometimes, Torben forgot that he didn’t used to be just Torben Blau to him. He used to be Torben Blau with every ounce of emphasis poured into his name like some magical creature or deity to Tristan. Sometimes, Torben forgot that there was a handful of people who liked him for his art first, for his coffee second.

Tristan continued. ”Like, you can’t even make the same exact color twice, even if you are… I don’t know… actually Torben Blau, for instance.”

Torben looked at his own canvas, a nearly solid, opaque wash of grey and blue. He looked at the twisted, distorted representation of his work the teacher had created and realized he hardly recognized the piece. He looked at Tristan’s canvas which had on it a carbon copy of Torben’s creation downtown. He smiled.

“To be honest, Miss—and this is just my opinion. I mean, I’m no artist—“ he said winkingly “but I think Sebastian’s version is better than yours. Closer, I mean, to the print out,” he held up the paper they had been given at the beginning of the class. “I mean, yours isn’t really close at all. What would Torben Blau say if he were in here, do you think?”

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Before the teacher could argue with Tristan – which seemed inevitable – Torben spoke up.

“To be honest, Miss—and this is just my opinion. I mean, I’m no artist, but— I think Sebastian’s version is better than yours. Closer, I mean, to the print out.”

Tristan looked from the printout photograph of “Death Wave” to his own canvas. His ears burned, but there was no hiding his grateful smile. Torben approved. Torben his friend. Torben the artist. Torben his idol. He wanted to brag to someone, but no one in the classroom knew Torben was Torben Blau and calling Gwen or Solange was out of the question. His giddy heart did a somersault, but couldn’t stick the landing when Tristan met the teacher’s gaze. She looked fit to burst into flames. Other students now craned their necks to see what all the fuss was about.

“I mean, yours isn’t really close at all,” Torben continued. “What would Torben Blau say if he were in here, do you think?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said the teacher in a strained voice. “I’d like to think that he would say that perfection is overrated.”

Tristan almost felt bad for her. The other students were now eyeballing his replica of “Death Wave” interestedly. The implication of the teacher’s words had been that Tristan’s work was “perfect”. Tristan didn’t know about that – didn’t care – because what he knew was that Torben’s words of praise were enough to check off at least five things on Tristan’s bucket list.

“How did you get that purple?” one of the middle-aged women asked Tristan.

“Well, purple isn’t really red and blue,” Tristan said said, thankful for the distraction. “It’s magenta and blue… cyan. Like printer ink. What we call red is actually kinda orangey...”

“You know a lot for someone with no previous painting experience,” the teacher said. Her voice was sharp as Tristan’s best trocar. He gulped and rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’m not – I didn’t—“ He sighed. “I know a thing or two about paint, I guess. Maybe.”

“Can you show me how to do quadrant two?” the woman asked.

Tristan looked over at Torben, the career artist. The reason they were in this mess. He didn’t look particularly helpful.

“I don’t think I’m qualified…”

“Nonsense. Gerald’s right. That looks quite a bit better than Madame’s painting.”

As Tristan walked over to the woman’s canvas, he shot Torben a withering glance. This was all his fault.

But Tristan couldn’t be mad at Torben. Not really, anyways, which was basically the same thing.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Torben Blau

The teacher pursed her lips in a way that told Torben she was either irritated or choking on food so sour she couldn’t enjoy it. Either way, the teacher looked far from pleased. Her face froze that way for a moment so long that Torben got concerned. Maybe her face was actually stuck and she needed to be in the hands of some sort of specialist. But at last, she spoke. Her words were sounded painful as she spat out a strained string of noises. “I’m sure I don’t know. I’d like to think that he would say that perfection is overrated.”

Torben tried his best not to laugh. Deep, sage advice was Gwen’s specialty, not his. Torben’s attempts at wise guidance fell flat on the ground at his feet with an almost audible splat. Looking at the instructor’s painting didn’t make him want to spout out Gwendoline-coined phrases. Instead, he had the urge to pat her on the back and tell her ‘Better luck next time’ or ‘Sometimes, our paintings just turn out like crap. Try not to beat yourself up over it’.

But before Torben could tell her any of this, a soft voice trickled out from across the room. “How did you get that purple?”

Torben looked at the purple on his own canvas. It was a watery lavender color. Nothing like the rich royal hues that emanated from Tristan’s brush, that he replicated flawlessly. He looked at Tristan expectantly, allowing him to answer the question. He seemed almost too eager to answer. “Well, purple isn’t really red and blue; it’s magenta and blue… cyan. Like printer ink. What we call red is actually kinda orangey...”

Torben beamed with pride. He’s had no hand in Tristan’s art education, but watching him answer the woman’s question gave him a feeling similar to watching Leopold recite his numbers up to 27 in both Dutch and French to random strangers.

“Can you show me how to do quadrant two?” Another woman asked and Tristan turned red, sputtering protests until another student stopped him.

“Nonsense. Gerald’s right. That looks quite a bit better than Madame’s painting.”

Tristan shuffled off to help, but caught Torben’s eye with a glare cruel enough to stop a heart. But Torben just smiled on, arms crossed, relaxed, as he leaned up against the wall, watching Tristan teach the amateur student.

“What do you look so smug about?” the teacher asked Torben.

“Nothing,” he said simply, watching the young man Gwen had adopted into their family before they had Leopold. The young man who buried their infant daughter. The young man Torben had grown to love the way he would have loved Leopold’s older brother. Of course, he wasn’t really Tristan’s father. But the impulse was there, the affection was there. “I’m just very proud of my son.”